


Hungry Like the Wolf

by merlywhirls



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Attempted Rape, Gen, Lady Killers, More death and violence whoops, Murder, Sexual Assault, Spoilers??????, Violence, Wedding, read a book
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-18
Updated: 2014-03-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 02:41:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1088629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merlywhirls/pseuds/merlywhirls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa Stark has always drawn in the wrong kind of men. It's about time she does something about it.</p><p>warning: attempted rape, abuse, violence, murder</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Light

It’s always light that attracts the darkness, as the tunnel will always lead to a brighter end. Innocence and purity will always draw the corrupt, like a beacon in a lighthouse signaling the ships that there is land ahead. Safety.

The beacon will lead in the darkest things that rest in the ocean’s belly, crawling on all fours to the shore, bones broken and skin cracked. No amount of water pulling and tugging at the broken things can bring them back, can drown them in the hopes that they may inflict no more cruelty. Their eyes are fixed on the light, and they will destroy anything that gets in their way, if only to capture the light and hold it in their blistered hands.

And then… well, and then the light will peter out.

Her mother had always told her that she had a radiant beauty, and it is from this that Sansa blames all her misgivings in life. Never could she walk through life unnoticed, as it is always the darkness that draws into her light. Strays of all kinds flock to her feet, and Sansa’s gentle heart could never tell them no. Even if she knew that they would break her, scar her porcelain skin, her naivety would argue that there is always hope.

This darkness would brew in men’s faces, clouding over every time she walked by and they would take notice. They’d whistle and hoot and shout crude things at her, but while her cheeks were blazing she’d hold her head high and keep in stride.

It was only once she was home would she cry.

Her first boyfriend was like a Prince Charming from the fairytales. She could see no darkness in his golden hair and felt stronger when he held her to his body. He’d whisper into her hair that she was beautiful, and when he looked at her she felt like it was only the two of them in the world.

She hardly noticed when he began to hold her a little tighter, began to whisper into her hair all the things she’d done wrong, would look at her as if she were a fly in the spider’s web. These were gradual, like a slow shift in atmosphere, and the scene became night. He stopped smiling, and so she stopped smiling too. She stopped being Sansa and simply became ‘bitch’, and she’d come when he called because she didn’t know there were any other options.

When he had friends over she was to serve them dutifully in all that they asked. Beer and food and groping became specials on Sansa’s menu, and she learned quickly how to juggle plates and cups and resist the urge to jump out of her skin when her bum was pinched.

None of her friends mentioned the bruises on her arms, so she thought that meant it was okay. Everyone goes through with this, and she wasn’t about to be an exception.

The first person to tell her that this wasn’t okay was an ex convict whom she suspected was on the run from the police at the very time that they met.

Sansa was walking to her Prince Charming’s castle when she noticed that three men had started following her in the streets. She recognized these men as the same ones who shouted obscenities at her when she passed the local diner, pressed up against the greasy window and sticking their tongues between two fingers.

It was only two in the afternoon on a busy street, so Sansa wasn’t too concerned about her safety until she turned down an empty road and caught a shiny glimpse of steel in the corner of her eye.

Sansa had panicked, and in her heightened state of anxiety made the worst mistake one could possibly make in this situation, and that was turn into a dead end alley way and cower behind the bins.

She could not remain quiet, tears streaming down her face and her breath heavy in heaving sobs and wails, nearly turning into screams when one of them said, “it sounds like a dying cat.”

Another laughed and said, “a dying pussy, more like.”

The others laughed too, surrounding her in her enclosed area, knife flashing in the daylight sun.

Before she could scream one of the men had grabbed her head, suffocating her with a hand over her mouth and nose. Another grabbed her arms and held them firmly in front of her, and the last started tearing at the stockings on her legs, muttering crudely under his breath about what he was going to do to her.

She struggled fiercely against the men, kicking her legs as hard as she possibly could. But it wasn’t enough, as the men started to try and strip off the rest of her clothes.

And that’s when he came. At the time Sansa thought of him as a knight in shining armor, noble in his mission to rescue the young maiden (for maiden she was; her Prince Charming never seemed interested in doing _that_ with Sansa) and to defeat the cretins and peasants that dare soil her. Over time of knowing him, Sansa realized that this man could never be a knight, let alone a noble one.

Singlehandedly this large, towering man was able to fight off three men from Sansa’s torn and shaking body, throwing them to the ground and kicking them while they were down. The man with the knife lunged at him like an agile cat, but the towering man just swatted him away like a fly, dashing his head against the concrete walls and caving in his skull in single swoop. His head crushed like a watermelon, and Sansa felt like she was going to be sick. The man fell limp on the ground, and Sansa _felt_ , rather than knew for certainty, that he was dead.

Without giving the dead man a second glance, the towering man pulled out a pistol from the band of his jeans and swiftly shot the remaining men point blank in the head. Sansa had seen enough mafia movies with her Prince Charming to know that the man had used a silencer, as all she heard was a muffled _pow!_ and the walls were spray painted with the vilest graffiti.

Sansa had felt her heart stop, and her vision blurred from tears and shock, as she clung desperately to the tattered remains of her clothes to her trembling body. The towering man approached her, and it was only then that she noticed the severe burn scars that marked the right side of his face, and she shrunk further into the bins.

“Hey, little bird,” he said gruffly, holding his hands up in a sign of peace, but failing as he still held the gun in a bloody hand. His face was dotted with spots of blood, and despite his attempts at appearing gentle came off as threatening and dangerous.

“P-please…” Sansa sobbed, her face screwing up. “Please don’t hurt me!”

“What?” He said incredulously, furrowing his brow. “You think I just killed three guys to have you myself?” He laughed, but when Sansa didn’t stop crying he softened.

Putting the gun on the ground, he took his leather jacket off slowly, and from as far as he could, stretched out his arm to give it to Sansa. He shook it impatiently when she didn’t grab for it immediately, but looked away as she pulled it over her bare chest.

“Let’s see your arms,” he said, “for bruising and whatnot.”

Sansa rolled up the long sleeves of the jacket, and around her wrists were dark purple stains. She looked away, blinking back tears, ashamed of her own skin’s betrayal.

“They look old,” he said, confused.

“They,” Sansa’s throat croaked. She cleared it, started again. “They _are_ old.”

“Has this happened to you before?”

She shook her head.

“Someone you know do this?”

Sansa shrugged her shoulders, but didn’t look him in the eye. No one had ever asked her about them before.

“That’s fucked up,” he said simply. “What is it, a boyfriend? Daddy?” He paused. “ _Brother_? Nah I don’t think so. It’s a boyfriend, isn’t it? You’re damned _Prince Charming_ , huh, little bird? He looks as pretty as a prince from a fairy tale? You don’t have to put up with that shit, no matter how pretty he is and how pretty the two of you look together. Hey, you listening to me?”

Sansa nodded, fearing that she was being rude. She tried to meet his eyes but they were too hollow, empty and dark. His grotesque scars bothered her too, making her face feel hot as if she were on fire.

“I’m sorry, sir,” she said nervously. “You… fought bravely.”

The man barked out a howl of laughter, toppling backward and landing on his arse. “ _Fought bravely_?” He repeated, laughing harder.

“I just meant… I just meant, thank you for saving me. Sir.”

“Oh little bird,” he said through giggles, “this is just the beginning for you. I was here for this one. I might not be here for the next. Maybe if your man is so good at beating up small girls he can take a thug, too. Maybe your Prince will protect his property. Maybe he won’t.”

He paused, finally looking over at the bodies crumpled on the ground. They didn’t seem to bother him, but rather he looked at them in disgust, as if their very deaths were an insult to him and a sign of their weakness.

“You should probably get going, little bird. Fly away. Go back to the nest.”

Sansa got shakily to her feet, holding the jacket tightly to her body. She looked at three dead men, her almost-rapists and her assaulters, lying lifeless in the heat of the day. As she walked by them, she held her head high and didn’t let herself cry. This man clearly hated weakness, and she was not going to be weak, not now.

When she reached the end of the alley, about to turn back into the street and into the real world once more, she called out to the man, “is there any way that I can repay you?”

She could hear him chuckle, even from so far away, and he said, “yeah, there’s a few. Dump your bitch boyfriend. And next time you need help, you come find me, and you sing for me, little bird. You sing.”

When she got home, locking the door behind her and pressing a chair up to jam the handle, she vomited into the toilet, and didn’t stop vomiting for days.

_You sing_.


	2. Shades of Grey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa is free from her Prince Charming, but immediately finds herself trapped with the troll under the bridge.

Sansa never got the opportunity to break it off with her Prince Charming, for not long after her attack was she replaced.

It was a humiliating process as her Prince announced his engagement with a woman Sansa had never met before at his family Christmas party. The woman was only a little older than Sansa, with long flowing brown hair and a face like a feline. She looked beautiful, and for a second Sansa doubted her own radiant beauty, before realizing the real situation. 

Sansa was _free_.

She had to try so hard to stifle a smile as her Prince’s family comforted her, their eyes glazed over with alcohol and their words just not quite as sincere as they should be. They all appeared to know this new woman, too, so Sansa only had to guess that her Prince had been seeing other Princesses while she served his friends beers and chips.

She did not spite the woman who stole away her Prince. No, Sansa was worried for her, worried that her tanned bronze skin would be brandished with his fingertips forever. The woman seemed quite at ease with the guests, and she smiled at Sansa’s Prince like he was the only one in the room.

Sansa used to know that too.

Maybe it hadn’t started yet.

And if it was an engagement, Prince Charming may even wait until they were married before he started to turn his cruel stomach. And in wedlock, the strikingly beautiful girl may just become striking.

A half-hour after the engagement announcement, Sansa took her cue to leave the castle forever. She was ready to never look back again.

At the large golden gates, Sansa’s name was called out behind her, and in long jogging strides came the Charming’s mistress, sparkling her white teeth in the black night.

Graciously and honestly, Sansa said, “Congratulations on your engagement. I hope you will be happy with him.”

The woman stopped in front of Sansa, breathing slightly heavily, and stroked the girl’s bare arm. Sansa got goose bumps.

“Will I, though?” The woman asked breathlessly. “Will I be happy with him, Sansa Stark? Those are awfully thick bracelets you’re wearing, and you haven’t shed a single tear.”

Sansa said nothing, but fiddled with the bracelets and shrugged. It was a bad habit she had, one her mother said would come off as rude, when only Sansa was shy and stuck for words. She did not know how to respond.

“Come walk with me in the garden, Sansa. I feel like we should chat about things. It’s a beautiful night, don’t you think?”

Sansa agreed, thoughtlessly linking arms with the woman and falling in step with her as they treaded lightly on the grass.

“It’s a beautiful home, too. Though, not as beautiful as you, my dear.”

Sansa blushed, and the woman beside her giggled. The woman leaned in closer, whispering to Sansa despite it being only the two of them.

“You do look lovely in blue, Sansa. It complements your hair greatly.”

Sansa’s blush deepened, and only managed to mutter out, “Thank you…”

“Oh!” The woman’s eyes widened, and she giggled again. “My name is Margaery, I’m so sorry. I’m also sorry about how we’ve met, Sansa. It’s not proper, but it’s what he wanted…”

Margaery smiled sweetly at Sansa, quirking an eyebrow. “And we both know that we must give the Prince what he wants. But I need to know, Sansa,” her voice dropped even lower, “how bad is he? I’ve seen bad, and I’ve had worse. Where does he sit on the rating scale? I need to know, and you are safe with me.”

Sansa looked away from her, staring up at the stars in the sky. She saw a shooting star, and she closed her eyes, made a wish. She breathed deeply.

“He’s a monster,” she said simply, and Margaery only nodded.

“This can be a fairy tale if we wanted it to be, Sansa,” she whispered into Sansa’s hair. “In fairy tales the bad guys never win. He doesn’t have to win, because I won’t let him.”

“What will you do?”

“I cannot tell you that, yet. But when it happens, Sansa, you will know. He’ll pay for what he’s done to you, dear. I promise.”

And it was from then that Sansa started to believe in Guardian Angels.

*

She met the next one a week after her Prince left her in the tower alone, and he introduced himself as an old friend of her mother’s.

Sansa could not find her mother at that time, as she was standing in the corner of the large hall, sipping red wine and watching her siblings dance with each other. It was a Christmas party thrown by her father’s workplace, his drunk heavy boss sitting at the largest table at the front of the golden room, booming about the new hot secretary in the workplace while said secretary sat fuming next to him.

“Good pair o’ tits on ‘er, right?” He was asking Sansa’s father, who refused to indulge his boss’ piggishness. For that Sansa was grateful.

The man introduced himself as the Chief of Police, and Sansa found it hard to restrain from giggling. The man looked nothing like a police officer in the movies. He was not authoritarian looking nor at all stern in his appearance. She rather thought he looked like a rat in her slightly drunken state, noting a pointy nose and drawn upper lip. His hair was dark grey and white at the temples, and the grey moustache at his lip looked like thick dust.

“My name is Chief Petyr Baelish,” he said, extending a stumpy hand to her. She shook it with a firm grip, as her father taught her, but it seemed to amuse him. “You have a handshake like a man.”

But Sansa shook her head. “No. I simply just have a handshake. How can I help you… Chief Baelish?”

The man chuckled again. “Please, call me Petyr, for the sake of being a friend of Catelyn Tully.”

“She’s a Stark,” Sansa pointed out, as she did not like the way his lips licked over the words of her mother’s name, as if he tasted them.

“That is true,” he allowed, “but when I knew her she was a Tully all the way, with such fierce red hair. I see you got that from her.” Baelish reached for Sansa’s hair, tucking a strand behind her ear.

“As did my brothers.” She felt her face get hot, and took a long swig of her wine. She would rather be red from the wine than blushing from this man’s fingertips.

“Indeed. Good, strong Tully genes in all of you. Well, except maybe little Arya, and there is always that Jon Snow.”

“That’s because he’s not my mother’s,” she blurted out before she could think.

Baelish looked like a light bulb had gone off above his head. “I thought not.”

“Please, sir, you didn’t hear it from me.” Sansa deeply regretted the wine now and decided to put down her glass to resist drinking more.

“I won’t tell,” Baelish smiled. “I’ll keep this secret for you, Sansa. Amongst others.”

Sansa furrowed her brow. “What others?”

Baelish swished his wine around in his mouth, and swallowed slowly. He licked his lips, and brushed against her to refill his glass.

“There was a camera in that alley, Sansa,” he whispered softly to her ear.

Sansa instantly paled, her hands started to shake and her body trembled. She had tried so hard not to think about it. Tried so hard not to think about their grabbing hands tearing at her clothes, nor their lifeless shells decaying on the hot concrete, the way her corrupt Knight saved her and told her to find him again if she needed.

As Baelish rested his hand on Sansa’s hip, telling her how he took care of it all, stroking the fabric of her dress with his short thumb and whispering about some arrangement that can be made for payment, Sansa decided that it was time to sing.

*

The small flat she lived in became increasingly cluttered with all of his things. Her Prince Charming would just refuse to come over to Sansa’s place, so she had little tokens of his left lying around. To see men’s things in the house, like cologne, electric razors and even underwear, perturbed Sansa deeply. It made the place messy, strewn all over the flat, and he made no apology for it. She would find food fallen behind the couch and in her bed, despite her insistence that he only eat at the small kitchen table. Sansa had to start vacuuming daily, or else he would come home and complain about what a wreck the place was.

Although he didn’t live there, Chief Baelish was at Sansa’s flat more often than not.

After a month of their ‘arrangement’, Sansa discovered that he had been searching through her laptop history. Given that Baelish was the one to find and erase the alleyway security camera footage, he would know that Sansa’s savior had told her to come find him when she needed him, and that this was probably him making sure that Sansa hadn’t.

Sansa had learned quickly that despite appearances, Petyr Baelish was a clever man and whom she would find hard to get one over on. He asked vague but purposeful questions about where she had been, who she was on the phone with, who she had shifts at work with and for how long. When she was late or missed a meeting, he would interrogate her extensively to find out where she was. He told her what to say when they ordered dinner. He was manipulative, but not as cunning as he thought. Sansa always knew when he was manipulating her, and she always knew what answers to give.

A week after discovering he was checking her laptop did she start to wonder if he was tapping her phone too.

“Get a brand new phone,” Margaery told her over lunch, “tell him the old one was wearing down. Take note of any strange things your new phone might be doing, like over heating, randomly shutting down, getting a low battery, or even making buzzing or clicking sounds. Call me in a few days.”

When Sansa called and told Margaery she was thinking about getting a dog, it was a signal that Sansa’s phone was most likely being tapped.

_Click_.

“Call her Lady,” Margaery replied, meaning she’ll find someone to help her out.

_Click_. “Will you come to the pound with me?” _We should meet up tomorrow_.

“Of course.” _The usual time and place_.

_Click_.

“I’ve got to go to work.” _He’s coming_. “Good night, Margaery.”

“Good night, my sweet Sansa.”

_Click_.

A week after that, Sansa got the vague feeling that she was being followed, and not in the usual way that occurs to young pretty girls.

Margaery told her to not be alarmed, but the same silver car has been parked outside of Margaery’s home in High Garden every time Sansa has come to visit.

“I always assumed it was yours, that’s why I never mentioned it. So not only are you being followed, but you are being followed by an _amateur_. I thought you said he was the Chief of Police?”

Sansa had left her phone at the flat, and gave her clothes a once over to check for any hidden microphones. Nothing.

“I need your help, Margaery,” she whispered.

“I should think so,” she whispered back, pouring Sansa another glass of lemonade.

“I need you to find a man for me.”

“Oh, honey, I think your current man might have something to say about that,” she winked.

“Not like that,” Sansa blushed, “A man who said he could help.”

“All men think they can help, little do.”

“He’s helped me in the past,” Sansa pointed out.

“And for what price? The same that you’re paying now?”

“No,” Sansa said, “I just need to sing.”


	3. Overcast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa becomes her own knight and defeats the troll under the bridge.

>   
> _In touch with the ground_
> 
> _I'm on the hunt I'm after you_
> 
> _Smell like I sound. I'm lost in a crowd._
> 
> _And I'm hungry like the wolf._
> 
> _Straddle the line in discord and rhyme_
> 
> _I'm on the hunt, I'm after you._
> 
> _Mouth is alive with juices like wine_
> 
> _And I'm hungry like the wolf_.

*

Once Margaery managed to find him, it took them even longer to work out how to shake off all of Baelish’s creeping bugs.

Sansa could easily forget her phone at home again, and despite their obviousness (for Sansa figured out it was never their goal to be subtle), the car following her stuck to her like a leech.

“I feel like a fly in a web,” she confided in Margaery.

Whenever Baelish touched her, she turned to stone.

Margaery leaned in close, a small smile playing on her lips. “Then let’s catch the spider.”

Their plan was simple but intricate, confusing at the times Sansa tuned out from anxiety, but Margaery assured her that it could work.

Sansa had to remember the plan from heart, and she couldn’t afford to mess it up. Doing so would leave her lost and alone, with no way of contacting anyone and with no one knowing where she is.

It’s a large world out there.

She was to take the two buses needed to get from Winterfell to Deepwood Motte. 

Three separate taxis to get to Riverrun. 

The underground tube between the Twins to Harrenhal.

A bus, then a taxi to reach the coast of Dragonstone.

Get on the first express trains from Dragonstone to very inner city of King’s Landing.

Walk for half an hour, watch for followers.

Turn into Flea Bottom, into the first tavern with a dog in the window.

Ask for the Hound.

‘Dog’ wasn’t the best description Sansa thought would be appropriate. It was more like rabid wolf, snarling and fearsome in form. It was only a picture, a stained glass portrait made of beer bottles, and its artistry amazed Sansa. If she weren’t so scared she would have asked who made it.

The tavern was full of men, mostly in leather and denim jackets that looked worn down from years and years of wear. They took no notice of Sansa when she entered the room, and she suspects that they were trained not to. Obedient dogs.

Margaery was already sitting on a bar stool at the front of the tavern, long gracious legs folded and kicking impatiently, and Sansa thought maybe a little anxiously too.

“It took longer than expected,” Sansa said as way of greeting, and Margaery’s face broke out into an infectious smile, leaping from her chair and pulling Sansa into a hug.

“Did anyone follow you?” She whispered in her ear.

Sansa shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

“Good,” Margaery stroked her hair, “Good, good.”

Margaery then took her hand and lead her straight to a door at the very back of the bar. She knocked three times and said, “She’s here.”

The door opened immediately, and standing in the door way was the towering man, smiling gruesomely down at Sansa.

“Little bird,” he said, “come to sing for me?”

Sansa cleared her throat. “If that’s all that you want from me, sir. I’d be happy to do more.”

“I bet you would,” he shook his head, “No, just a song for me, little bird. Then we can discuss what you need. Come in.”

Sansa moved towards him, but he put a hand out to stop her. “Your friend stays here.”

Despite all appearances, the towering man is someone Sansa believed she could truly trust, and so she smiled at Margaery. 

“It’s fine.”

And walks into the back room with the Hound.

He shut the door behind her, leaving them in total darkness. Sansa couldn’t see a thing, and started fumbling around to find the edges of the furniture.

The Hound moved about easily, clearly familiar with the place, and lighted a small tabletop candle in the middle of the room. He didn’t look comfortable as he sat down at the table, cringing away from the tiny flames that flickered on the wick.

“Sit.”

Sansa could hardly see the small wooden chair across from the Hound. As she sat down on it, she jumped right back up again gasping.

“I almost forgot,” she said, rummaging through her handbag. She pulled out a worn leather jacket, freshly cleaned and handed it over to the Hound. She smiled shyly. “Thank you.”

The Hound just huffed, taking the jacket from her and asked, “How did you ever hide this from Prince Charming?”

“It wasn’t the Prince I had to hide it from. Someone much worse.”

The Hound quirked an eyebrow as she launched into her story, and only stopped her to curse or clarify.

When she was done he already had the answer.

“We fucking kill him.”

And before she left, Sansa Stark sang _Hungry Like the Wolf_.

*

Margaery became the messenger, and would often skip important events to speak with Sansa sooner.

“Don’t you have a wedding to plan?” Sansa would joke.

Margaery would smile, but it would always be a little sad, not full of the light radiance Sansa had come love and crave. Margaery was like a warm burning fire she could sit by in the afternoons, after a long day at work, and just cuddle with until she fell asleep.

“I’d rather plan ours,” Margaery would joke back, but there was always an edge in her voice that would suggest it wasn’t a complete joke. Sansa didn’t mind.

The planning took a long a time, _too long_ the Hound said, for Sansa’s restrictions tightened after her trip to Flea Bottom.

“I just care about you,” Baelish said, “And I don’t want you getting lost. You must promise me you’ll take your phone with you _everywhere_.”

So Sansa did, but whenever she was at Margaery’s she would always turn it off. Margaery had told her that even if Sansa wasn’t on a call, Baelish could easily listen to whatever conversation she was having through the phone.

 _Click_.

Baelish also became annoyed at her constant visits to High Garden when she could, as he said, be spending more quality time with him.

“But I’m always there when you’re working, Petyr,” Sansa would bat her eyelids, but it never worked on him.

“You’ve let the place go since you’ve started to go see her. I want it to stop. I don’t know why you insist on seeing the woman who replaced you, anyway.”

“A young woman is courteous. I like Margaery.” 

Sansa was washing all of his dishes from the numerous snacks he would demand throughout the day, and he slid his arms around her waist, pressing his bulge to her arse. He trailed light kisses in her hair, and Sansa had to restrain herself from shrugging him off. That would make him angry.

“A young woman does as she’s told.”

“Margaery is my friend,” Sansa insisted as he started nuzzling her neck. His moustache felt rough on her smooth skin, like tiny needles drawing blood. She stood completely still.

“No, Sansa.” He bit her shoulder.

“Just one last time?” She pleaded. “Just to say good bye. A young woman is courteous. Please, my love.”

She knew that would persuade him, a simple pet name, one she would wish to burn from her tongue later on.

His grip around her waist tightened, and blew a huff of air out of his nose.

“Fine. One last time.”

“Oh, thank you, my love, thank you.”

Sansa tore off her dishwashing gloves, turned and wrapped her arms around his head, kissing all over his face.

Sansa could manipulate too.

“Okay, okay,” he said, smiling from the affection.

“I must call her.”

“No, no, Sansa,” Baelish cooed, “Something else first.”

Dragging her by a belt loop in her jeans, Baelish lead Sansa to their bed.

*

“We never did go to that pound,” Sansa said into the phone.

 _He’s onto us_.

“Oh, well,” Margaery said slowly, “Sometimes things crop up.” _It was always going to happen_.

“Shall we do it soon?” _We need to do_ it _soon_.

“Yes, I think so. Come over next Monday, my sweet Sansa, and we’ll look for a dog.”

“I look forward to it.”

“Me too.”

“Good bye, Margaery.”

“Good bye, Sansa.”

*

The Hound was sitting on Margaery’s patio on the next Monday Sansa visited. He was fiddling around with a fancy wine opener with a crank and encrusted with diamonds. His face was a mess of confusion.

“And how the fuck do you think this works?” He said as greeting.

Sansa giggled, taking the corkscrew from the Hound, and expertly removing the cork from a red wine bottle sitting at his elbow. She poured him a glass.

“I’m sorry not all of us grew up in the higher class,” he said scornfully. “We never bothered with such contraptions. If a bottle became too hard to open, you just smack it over some bugger’s head.”

Sansa giggled again and poured a glass for herself.

“So you’re ready to do this?” The Hound asked.

“I guess I have to be,” Sansa said with her lips on the glass.

Margaery comes out to the patio carrying a tray of lemon cakes, her dress glittering in the sun and her hair coming down in thick ringlets down her back.

Putting the tray on the table, Margaery smiled at Sansa.

“He told me I couldn’t see you anymore,” Sansa said.

“Well, he must be the devil,” Margaery said, pouring herself a glass of wine.

“Yes, yes, he’s a terrible man,” the Hound cut in, “Now let’s get on with this.”

And the three of them set to work.

*

Sansa lived in a thirty-story apartment flat in the inner city of Winterfell. Sansa had always been a little weary of heights, distrusting her ability to not go falling over the edge. She lived on the third story, and although it cost her a lot more to rent that apartment, she was pleased with it all the same. She had never ventured past the fourth floor, when one time she went above to complain to a resident about their noise. 

Sansa’s childhood home was in Winterfell also. It had been enormous, although only double story, and on overcast days the roof would be shrouded in clouds. The house itself looked something from a fairy tale, with a double winding staircase and a ballroom.

But her siblings only ever seemed interested in climbing on the roof.

Sansa thought that when she finally had a sister, she would have someone whom would let her play with her hair, and most importantly, scoff at all the stupid things their brothers and their friends would get up to. Sansa had no such luck.

She would spend her time on the vast ground on the mansion’s garden, her arms folded over her chest, and her throat raw from shouting to them.

“You have to come down _now_! Before you fall!”

Sometimes she would be able to stop little Rickon from following, but there was never any helping Bran. He had loved to climb, and he loved to follow wherever his big brothers went. Robb and Jon always thought it was fun, having races on the slope of the roof tiles, jumping from pillar to pillar and scaling the walls. Sometimes their friend Theon would come and do it too, but he mostly just tried to push one of them off, just as a joke.

They all stopped climbing once Bran fell, and all Sansa could think was too little too late.

It had been since then that Sansa had avoided going to high places, but now that was no longer a luxury she was allowed, as she stood patiently in the elevator with Baelish, going up.

“A picnic on the roof,” Baelish had said, tasting the words on his tongue. “I never took you for a romantic, Sansa.”

“You’ll catch me I nearly fall, right Petyr?” Sansa asked innocently.

“Of course, Sansa. I wouldn’t want you to fly away.”

 _Fly away, little bird_.

It always snowed heavily in Winterfell in the ripe winter season, and Sansa could not have prayed for a better time. The roof and the ground below would be thick with snow, so deep you could bury a body in it.

“I once took your mother ice skating, when we were teenagers.”

Baelish and Sansa’s mother had been long childhood friends, until something happened that caused Catelyn’s father to forbid Baelish from seeing his daughters. Baelish would not say what.

“Were you any good?” Sansa flirted.

Baelish chuckled. “Not nearly as good as your mother. She was beautiful. _Is_ beautiful.” He ran his thumb over Sansa’s lower lip. “And so are you.”

Sansa blushed prettily, something she had come to master to do on cue. Baelish seemed to enjoy it.

The elevator _dinged_ and opened its doors to let Sansa and Baelish out. She took his hand, holding a basket in the other, and moved confidently to the end of the hall to the roof exit.

Grafittied on the old, metal door in fluorescent paint were the words _Moon Door_.

Baelish opened the door, letting Sansa through first, and moved a brick to jam the door so it didn’t close behind them.

Sansa had dressed accordingly for the heavy snowfall, wearing a thick black jacket lined with fur. She drew the hood up to protect, and cover, her face. Baelish did the same, pulling his windbreaker tighter over his body. Plumes of white air huffed out of his nose.

Earlier in the day, Sansa had gone up there to set up a small table with two chairs, now covered in snow. With a swoop of an ungloved hand, Sansa wiped off the snow from the table and put the basket on top. She did the same for the chairs and sits in one, waiting for Baelish to sit in the other.

“It’s freezing up here, Sansa,” he complained.

“I’m sorry, my love,” she said sweetly, “I’m so used to the cold that I can hardly feel it. Come, sit, and we’ll get warmed up.”

Baelish obliged, despite hating being order by Sansa, and moved his chair closer to her and she poured some hot chocolate for the two of them.

It’s dark out, only a few stars shining above the city, but the full moon an omniscient figure glowing in the sky.

It’s only after Sansa takes a sip of her hot chocolate did Baelish do the same.

“It’s a beautiful night,” Baelish said, and Sansa smiled because that was one of the first things Margaery had said when they first met.

“Indeed,” Sansa replied, picking up his phrases.

She pulled out a pudding, still warm from the oven, and took out two spoons, handing one to Baelish.

He waited until Sansa had a few bites before starting himself.

“Mm,” Baelish hummed, “This is excellent, Sansa.”

“Thank you,” Sansa replied. She had made the pudding from scratch, cooking since she woke, too anxious to do anything else. Baking allowed her hands something to do, and distracted her from what was to commence in the evening.

The time was almost approaching. Sansa tried thinking but not thinking about it at the same time. She had to be cautious, alert, but at the same time she didn’t want to think about what she was going to do, no matter how much she hated Baelish.

Baelish finished off the pudding quite quickly, which was what Sansa was expecting. The entire hood of his jacket was blanketed in snow, and Sansa could only imagine what hers was like.

“Let’s look over the city,” Sansa suggested, “I want to know if I can see my parents’ house from here.”

Sansa jumped up from her snowy chair, a waterfall of snow cascading off her lap, and wandered over to the east side of the building.

All the way down those thirty floors was an empty alley, completely sans of security cameras.

Baelish wandered behind her and said, “Let’s make a snow man first.”

Sansa cringed, because she knew she couldn’t refuse.

Sansa had made plenty of snowmen in her childhood, and the suggestion from Baelish almost sounded ludicrous. 

They made the snowman together, Baelish giving up his jacket to dress the snowman, and Sansa used a spoon for its nose. For a while they stood before their creation, Baelish holding onto Sansa’s hand, until he said, “We can look for your mother’s house now.”

They moved towards the edge of the building, their toes pressing up against the slightly raised barrier, looking over the shining city of Winterfell, and where it ends.

“It looks so small from up here,” Sansa gasped.

Baelish held onto her hand tighter, their thumbs crossed and his large hand clasped firmly over her petite one. Her bones began to ache.

“I can’t see your house.”

Sansa tried to get closer to the edge, to hang over it with her upper body, but Baelish pulled her back. “I promised to catch you.”

Sansa smiled. “Thank you.”

Her hands were growing sweaty and her heart started beating faster. She had to do it now, or she’d lose her nerve.

But then Baelish said, “Sansa, why are we up here?”

Sansa feigned ignorance. “To have a picnic. Just something nice to do.”

“You’ve never done anything nice like this before.” Baelish’s voice became colder, crueler, as if he were planning the same thing Sansa was.

“It’s never too late to start.” Her voice started to shake.

Baelish turned, forcing Sansa to face him as he locked both her wrists in his grip. Her heart started to beat even faster, so fast she felt like she was going to break.

“Petyr…!” Sansa cried.

“You think I don’t know what you’re doing,” he hissed at her face, shaking her whole body.

“I don’t know what you mean…” Sansa struggled.

“Cut the shit, Sansa Stark, why are we _really_ up here, you little bitch!”

Sansa’s eyes turned cold.

And then she leapt into action.

Sansa knew that from years of being in the police force that Petyr Baelish would have exceptional skills in attack and defense, especially when it came to dealing with criminals. It would have been part of his basic training, and coupled with his senior status, would be one of the best in the art of fighting.

“That doesn’t mean shit,” the Hound had told her. “Not when you can do what I’ll teach you.”

“But he’s so _strong_ ,” she had insisted.

Every great fighter can be defeated by even the smallest bird, he promised her, and so he taught her.

Sansa put that teaching into practice now, twisting her arms away from Baelish and protruding her elbows to his chest. Her wrists easily slipped through between his thumb and index finger, just as the Hound had promised. Both her hands were beside her head now, and before Baelish could react, she kicked the side of his knee, which he injured several years ago and hadn’t quite healed, to Sansa’s delight. His entire body went sagging down to his knees, and he howled in pain.

“You little bitch!”

With her palm, Sansa hit Baelish’s pointy nose, causing it to spout out in blood instantly.

With one final heave, Sansa got to the side of Baelish and pushed him over the side of the building. He went tumbling down, and Sansa couldn’t even see him hit the bottom.

But she didn’t need to. She knew the Hound was down there, ready to take Baelish away forever.

Sansa’s favourite part of the plan was that no one would come looking for Baelish here, as he never told his co workers about his relationship with Sansa, and was adamant that Sansa never speak with his colleagues, ever.

He called it, _protecting his reputation_.

Didn’t want to be known as dating a questionably young girl and put his job in jeopardy.

Now Sansa called it, _signing a death wish_.

And unfortunately for Baelish, his surveillance guy in the silver car was easily sold over to keep quite for a few hundred dollars, granted that he also wasn’t going to be beaten to death by the Hound.

Sansa giggled, and went back home, closing the Moon Door behind her.

*

Whenever there was a knock on the door, Sansa’s heart would leap, believing the police had come to question her and blame her for Baelish’s death, but it was only ever Margaery.

A week after Petyr Baelish was reported missing, Margaery called her up on the intercom, asked what the building’s policy on pets was.

“I don’t think they’d consider you a pet, Margaery,” Sansa joked, and she could almost see Margaery stick her tongue out at her.

“Not unless you make me wear a leash and collar,” Margaery replied.

Sansa’s cheeks burned, and told the woman to come up. 

Through the door, Margaery sang, “I have a present for you!”

And when Sansa opened the door, a large grey dog bounded up to her chest, licked her face with a tail wagging like mad. The dog was almost as tall as Sansa, and beautifully grey, almost silver, with two stripes of black down its back, and on the tips of its ears.

“Her name is Lady,” Margaery smiled.

And Sansa fell in love.


	4. Purple Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is time for Sansa to slay the Prince Charming. Or the dragon? Lion, or something.

Margaery called ten minutes too late to warn Sansa of the next horrific event to occur in her life.

The paper had fallen from her shaking hands and she stood completely still, shocked. Not even Lady’s barking could draw her back to life.

“It wasn’t my idea,” Margaery had insisted, “He didn’t even tell me he was doing it!”

Sansa believed her, but it didn’t make it any better.

In thick embellished paper, printed in flowing gold script, was Sansa Stark’s wedding invitation to celebrate the union between the deer and the rose.

Her invitation explicitly stated that she was not granted a plus one.

“I don’t want you there, Sansa,” Margaery said quite bluntly. “I can’t do that.”

It seemed that no matter what Sansa did, some _man_ would come tear her down from her perch.

Since Baelish flew away, it had just been Sansa and Lady, and sometimes Margaery would stay for the night. They would just cuddle up on the couch and watch movies, with Lady sleeping at their feet, but there would be sparse kisses on knuckles and cheeks, and feeding each other popcorn.

And when Margaery could not visit due to wedding engagements, Sansa would take an express train to King’s Landing and drink with the Hound, and if she got drunk enough on red wine she would insist that they do karaoke.

The last time she visited her parents’, they insisted on setting her up with a sickly boy named Robert.

“You would be a light in his life,” her mother had said, and Sansa felt sick.

When conversation turned to Petyr Baelish’s disappearance, Sansa excused herself from the table.

“I don’t want you there, Sansa,” Margaery kept saying, “It’s not safe for you there.”

Sansa always knew Margaery was planning something, had told her from the very beginning, and now it looked like Sansa was going to be a part of it.

_What’s one more?_

“I have to come,” Sansa said resignedly, “We know what he’s like if I were to refuse. I’d be dragged there in chains.”

She was not going to give him that satisfaction.

“I’ll talk to him,” Margaery said frantically, “I’ll convince him to change his mind, I will Sansa-”

“That would only make him angry,” Sansa pointed out, and she started to feel calmer about the situation. She was going to look the monster in the eye and smile.

Over the phone, it sounded like Margaery was crying.

_Margaery doesn’t cry, she’s the strong one_.

“I’ll get you a seat next to someone good. He has an uncle who’s pretty funny, and very smart, nothing like _him_. He’s not the most handsome man, but he’s _kind_ -”

“Margaery, it’s okay. I’m okay.”

“I’m not!” Margaery exploded, and Sansa was quite taken aback. “Sansa,” she whispered, “What I’m planning might put you in the spotlight. An ex-girlfriend coming to the wedding? Everyone will think you did it!”

“Did _what_? Margaery, what are you planning?”

Margaery paused, sighed heavily.

“Fine,” Margaery exhaled, “Fine, fine. I have to change some things up. I’ll talk to you later, Sansa. Don’t worry about anything.”

But despite Margaery’s insistence, Sansa worried. She didn’t leave the flat except for groceries, bringing Lady with her for protection, and still, every time the doorbell rang, Sansa’s heart leapt out of her chest.

Three days after the invitation and the phone call, Sansa received a package. The return address belonged to the _Queen of Thorns_ , but Sansa didn’t know who that was.

Inside was a beautiful hair net strung by sparkling purple jewels. It looked like a glittering spider web, each shining jewel a trapped beetle. It took Sansa’s breath away.

A handwritten note inside the package told her to wear something deep purple. Sansa was going to look like the night sky for her Princess’s wedding.

Margaery called her later in the day, asking solemnly if she received the gift.

“I did,” Sansa chirped, “It’s beautiful. Are you meant to be the Queen of Thorns?”

Margaery laughed briefly over the phone. “No, sweet Sansa, that’s my grandmother. The gift is from her. She thought it would suit your hair.”

“How does she know what my hair looks like?”

Margaery paused. “I might have mentioned it to her.”

Sansa smiled, and even though Margaery wasn’t there to see it, hid it behind her hand anyway.

But then Sansa’s face turned serious, and her heart became stone. “So, what’s the plan?” She asked.

“Just wear the hair net, Sansa. We’ll take care of everything else.”

Sansa was about to protest when Margaery cut over her. “The less you know, the better.”

Sansa was about to hang up when Margaery said, “Oh, by the way.”

Sansa waited.

“You’ll be sitting next to his uncle. His name is Tyrion.”

And she hung up.

*

Margaery made sure that everything was perfect for the wedding, to the wedding venue in a large, golden ballroom that overlooked the ocean, to the crimson rose and deer banners that hung along the walls, and right down to the comfort of Sansa.

Sansa had never been properly introduced to her Prince’s family when they were together. She only ever conversed with his mother, Cersei, who was cold at best, and whom seemed to despise Sansa for taking her son away from her. Her Prince’s father was never around, and when the Prince’s famous uncle Jamie was over he was always locked away in some room with his sister.

Sansa didn’t even know he had another uncle, and when she first meets him on the white marble steps outside the Great Sept of Baelor, she understands why.

Uncle Tyrion was a dwarf, Sansa immediately saw, and after exchanging only a few words with him discovered he was clever too. Someone her Prince would despise.

Sansa thought she had tried her best to hide her shock, but when the small man laughed and told her it was alright, her cheeks blushed ashamedly and immediately apologized.

“It’s alright, Lady Sansa. I’ve had far worse. Forgive me if I do not take your arm, I’m afraid I may not reach and we’d look quite a picture together.”

Sansa giggled, and that seemed to please him, and so they walked in together.

“Although you are not family of either side, I must insist you sit with me, my lady. Bride’s orders.”

Sansa giggled again, only this time it seemed to confuse him.

“I am no lady,” Sansa explained, “In fact, I have a wolfhound named Lady. It’s strange to be called that.”

Now Tyrion laughed. “Very well, my apologies. What shall I call you?”

They took their seats in the back pew on the groom’s side, where it seemed most of the Prince’s father’s family resided. Sansa could tell by their thick, jet black hair, and the slow bleach of colour to Lannister blonde the closer to the alter. Sanas’s bright red hair stuck out amidst all the black, and she felt like a small fire burning amongst coal.

“Just call me Sansa. Should I call you Lord Tyrion?”

“Definitely not. Just Tyrion, perhaps.”

“Very well. Tyrion, why are we not sitting with your family?” Sansa asked.

“Because I’m a dwarf and you’re the ex-girlfriend of the Groom. Not really welcomed.” He said it simply, with no bitterness or malice. It was obvious to Sansa that he was used to this.

“Surely you haven’t been banished?”

“Oh no,” he huffed, “Nothing that serious. I am at the wedding after all, despite our charming groom’s insistence that I shouldn’t attend. No, we’d be here, but tucked away in the corner of the room so it is not immediately obvious that we are a part of the festivities.”

Sansa furrowed her brows. “But he demanded that I be here. Wouldn’t he want me in the middle of everything?”

Tyrion threw his hands into the air. “You got me. I’m actually hiding you.”

“I’m like a beacon in the middle of all this black hair.”

“Wait until the Baratheon cousins come in,” Tyrion promised, “Their only options are in front and beside us. They’re _huge_. Huge in comparison to an average sized man. They’ll block us out easy enough.”

“Sansa Stark.”

Sansa’s heart leaped, fearing it was a Lannister come to mock her, but when she turned she only saw an elderly woman, completely wrapped in layers of fabric, all bearing intricate rose patterns, with a head scarf pinned by her ear with a golden rose brooch. Sansa knew who it was immediately.

“The Queen of Thorns,” Sansa greeted, shuffled to the end of the pew to shake the woman’s hand.

“Please,” the woman said, “Call me Olenna. I just wanted to see how you were doing.”

“Oh, I’m fine,” Sansa smiled, “Tyrion has been with me.”

“So he has,” Olenna waved behind Sansa to a crouching Tyrion, who appeared to be trying to hide. The old woman just laughed.

“Well, turn around, girl,” Olenna commanded cheerily, “I want to see how the hair net looks on you.”

Sansa did as she was told, twirling prettily to display the hair net keeping in her fiery red hair in bunches.

“Oh dear,” Olenna smiled, “A bit appears to have slipped out. Never worry, dear, I’ve got it.”

As Olenna was tucking Sansa’s hair back in with a gloved hand, a deep, forlorn piano organ started to play as an indication that the ceremony was about to begin.

“Don’t worry,” Olenna whispered in Sansa’s ear, tickling her neck, “Margaery has worked everything out. It will be fine. She’s a clever girl.”

“I know,” Sansa whispered back.

Sansa didn’t have a chance – or rather, wasn’t given the chance – to see Margaery before the ceremony. A brief phonecall in the morning was all Sansa had to work up the courage to attend her best friend, and her worst nightmare’s, wedding.

Sansa quickly shuffled back to her seat in the very corner with Tyrion, and three large men came lumbering in, hissing at each other in low but deep voices.

“I told you we would be late! Robert will kill us.”

“Robert won’t know which one at the alter is even his son. We’ll be fine. Just shut up!”

The men sat themselves next to Sansa and Tyrion, and true to Tyrion’s prediction, almost completely block them out from the rest of the Sept.

They didn’t block them out enough for Sansa not to be able to see Margaery in a long, white gown, walking slowly in arm with her brother toward the large marble statues of the Seven Gods.

Sansa’s heart was in her mouth when she caught the small glimpse of Margaery, her deep brown hair pulled back from her face in clips made from pearls, her hair falling in ringlets down her back. Her dress was floor length, and dragged behind her on the red carpet. Her bust was decorated in swirls of pearls and diamonds, and gold beads forming roses and thorns. Around her neck on a silver chain was a large canine tooth from a wolf, the very one that Sansa had sent to her as a wedding present the previous day. Sansa’s mouth went dry.

Margaery looked beautiful, like she always did, but radiated purity and innocence, like a light shining in the darkness. Sansa was instantly captured by her light, and finally understood why so many were previously drawn to her.

Light is the most beautiful thing in the world.

Loras could not hold a candle to his sister’s beauty, despite his own crown of brown curls and embroidered doublet. As he gave his sister away to the monster, he winked to someone in the first row on the Lannister side, but Sansa hardly noticed. She could not tear her head away from Margaery, or the small part of Margaery she could see from so far away.

Sansa didn’t even realize she stood until Tyrion started tugging at her skirt. Blushing, she sat back down.

Sansa could not see Joffrey Baratheon one bit, and for that she was grateful, because she didn’t know if she could get through the ceremony and look at the smug look on his face as he took away what was most precious to Sansa.

This way, Sansa could lean back in her seat, staring at the small part of Margaery’s head that she could see, and pretend it was her there up there with Margaery, holding her hands and leaning in to kiss her.

_I do_.

*

The wedding feast was held at the groom’s family home, where all the Lannister members were comfortable and laughing through red wine. Only the Baratheon brothers came to the feast afterwards, and so few Tyrells were invited to begin with, and the only ones left were Margaery’s immediate family. And then there was Sansa.

Sansa stuck to Tyrion like glue, spoke only when spoken to, and decided to stay to the edges of the room, and tried particularly hard not to bump into anyone. The tables for the feast were set up in the ballroom immediately to the right of the front door, but the large lounging area and kitchen were set up as a waiting foyer to mingle before the dinner. Sansa could find no sight of the newly wed couple.

“Probably taking photographs,” Tyrion said into his third cup of wine, “That’s where my precious siblings will be, too. And my father. No room for a dwarf, it seems.”

Sansa herself was on her second cup of wine, not quite matching Tyrion’s thirst but definitely wearing it worse. She swayed at the edge of the room, her heart a nervous titter in her chest.

It didn’t become any better when the newly wed couple arrived to the house.

This new, closer view of Margaery was breathtaking, and made Sansa so unbelievably nervous that she nearly threw up into her cup. Her head spun.

But it was the sight of her former Prince Charming that made Sansa want to crawl into a ball and never emerge.

It was only from hindsight that Sansa could recognize the coldness that came from his crystal blue eyes, like shards of ice piercing the sun.

Although he was still handsome, Joffrey Baratheon was a particular kind of ugly that could only be exposed from experience. Sansa had that experience.

It was between romantic movies and microwave popcorn that Sansa discovered that Margaery did not have that experience. And after that, Sansa began to sleep easier.

“He’ll probably wait until we’re married,” Margaery said with an air of ease, “He wouldn’t be so stupid.”

Joffrey’s eyes glistened when they turned on Sansa and her trembling body. He strode over to her confidently, purposefully, leaving his wife to take Sansa by the waist and walk her around the lounge.

“Lovely wedding, isn’t it?”

Sansa only nodded.

And like so many times before, and many times after, Margaery came to Sansa’s rescue.

“Oh, husband,” she called loud enough for the whole room to hear, “I think it’s time to begin the feast. What do you think?”

Joffrey instantly dumped her where they stood, smirking as he backs away.

“I can still have you, you know,” he whispered so only she could hear, “No matter what you do.”

Sansa didn’t say a thing as he took his wife back in his arms and escorted her and the rest of the party into the ballroom.

*

It had been three hours and six courses of meals, and too many jugs of wine for Sansa to count. She didn’t know if she could even count that high.

Tyrion vastly beat her in wine consumption, but after her brief encounter with the monster, Sansa had lost her appetite.

And after seeing Margaery and the monster feed each other cake, Sansa feared she had lost more than just her appetite.

She assumed _something_ would have happened by now, but as no strange occurrences emerged, Sansa was left with a drunken dwarf and a hole in her heart.

“I am the God of tits and wine,” Tyrion mumbled under his breath.

“We could add you as the eighth god,” Sansa replied absently.

Tyrion laughed loudly, knocking over his cup of wine onto himself.

“Oh, oh,” he said through fits of laughter, “Oh look what I’ve done. Oh dear. Excuse me, my lady, I must go clean myself.”

As he shuffled out of the room, he kept laughing under his breath, repeating Sansa’s words.

The monster’s father was boisterous and drunk, groping women as they went past despite his wife being seated next to him. Cersei appeared bored with the whole affair, only looking animated when talking with her brother Jamie. She stared coldly at Margaery, just as she had stared coldly at Sansa.

It was so cold it could burn.

A light tinkering erupted in the room as the Queen of Thorns rose from her seat beside the bride, wine glass in her hand, calling for the party’s attention. The room fell into a hush.

“I would just like to take a moment to congratulate our newly wed couple, and the union between the deer-“

Cersei’s face churned in fury.

“-And the rose.”

The party applauded politely, but sloppily, as many were still too concerned with drinking from their cups instead of raising it.

The Queen of Thorns raised her glass even higher, indicating to the couple, where Sansa tried very hard not to look.

“To my beautiful granddaughter, and my new grandson-in-law, I wish you the very best in your happy marriage. Cheers.”

The party repeated, _cheers_ , guzzling down their drinks.

Sansa took a sip from her glass, staring vacantly at the floor.

Until she heard the screaming.

The entire ballroom was alight with action as people flew from their seats, running to the head table where sat the newlyweds, their hands reaching frantic and voices crying in surprise.

Sansa could not see what was happening, and could only scarcely hear the deep, guttural choking that came from the table.

Her first panicked thought was _Margaery_ , until she heard the woman shouting, “Somebody help him!”

“Please, somebody help him!”

Cersei’s moaning could be heard too, violent crying and commands at the party watching.

“ _Save him! Save my son!_ ”

Sansa barely noticed the small presence beside her, asking bemusedly, what on earth is happening here?

“I’m gone for two minutes and the party erupts.”

“Joffrey is choking,” Sansa replied.

Margaery’s hysterical crying and screaming sounded real to Sansa, like a dying gutted animal, and it turned Sansa’s blood cold. Hears stood up on the back of her neck, and she rubbed at it impatiently, her hands trembling.

_He’s dying over there_ , Sansa slowly realized, _He’s actually_ dying.

She didn’t know how to feel about that.

Apparently neither did Tyrion, as he did not move from his seat.

It was just the two of them sitting now, everyone having fled over to crowd around the purple groom, many of them crying and some turning pale.

Sansa’s sure she’s pale too.

Cersei just would not stop screaming, and yet no one helped.

When Sansa finally rose, her legs absently taking her over to the crowd and pushing her way through, her brain only robotically registered the bright purple swelling that became her former lover’s face. His neck was stained red with scratches, and Sansa only vaguely supposes that he tried to claw his throat out.

_Now he knows how it feels._

Sansa tried hard to not look at Margaery, but failed when she registered the girl’s crying in the distance, brown and black makeup streaked down her face.

Sansa wanted to reach out for her, to hold her beautiful rose to her chest and tell her it’s all okay. It took Sansa longer than what was probably necessary to realize that Margaery was only acting.

No one could honestly care about this boy.

Except maybe Cersei Lannister, who looked even more distraught than Margaery, clutching the small body to her chest and rocking back and forth. She wailed so loudly it started Sansa’s heart beating again.

And she realized she was in a room full of lions.

Slowly, inconspicuously, Sansa backed out of the crowd and hurriedly returned to her seat to retrieve her bag. But as she bent to collect it, she heard a voice behind her shout, “Hey! Stop there!”

Sansa instantly froze, turning to the voice slowly, but they weren’t looking at her.

At the big double doors, half out of the ballroom, was Tyrion, trying to escape just like Sansa.

“You monster!” Sansa heard Cersei shout, “You did this to my boy! Vile creature!”

Before Tyrion could reply, the crowd was charging toward him, grabbing him and bringing him forward to Cersei.

Before Sansa could see what unfurled next, a hand was tugging at her skirt, another grabbing her elbow.

“We must move, sweet Sansa,” Margaery’s brother whispered in her ear, “It is time for you to go home.”

Slipping through the back door with Loras in tow, the last thing Sansa heard was Cersei screeching, “Arrest him now!”

Sansa’s heart beat for collateral damage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long, I had a bit of a block! I think I'm back on the ball now. Hopefully the chapters will be quicker in uploading. Or not. I'm soooooo changeable.


	5. White Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It never ends for Sansa, the world seemingly having a never ending supply of single boys with unwarranted influence.

It had been three weeks since the wedding. Margaery still hadn’t called.

Sansa couldn’t put on the news, because all they showed was the great Trial of the Year. The look of defeat on Tyrion’s face was enough to make Sansa cry.

How long it had been since Sansa ate, she didn’t know.

Sometimes Loras will drop by to see how she’s doing, but Sansa has learned the craft of deception. She’s had to, over these last few months, and now can expertly lie through her teeth. She makes her skin and bones look like whale fat.

He’ll stay for an hour, have some tea, pet Lady, talk of everything but the wedding. Talk of everything but Margaery, even if Sansa asks directly.

“How is she?”

And he’d only reply, “With company.”

Sansa didn’t know what she expected.

After _that_ night, as they hurriedly piled into Loras’ car, Sansa was told that under no circumstances was she to message or call Margaery, or even Loras.

“We’ll come to you,” he said as he started the car.

But so far _we_ had only been Loras, and in the past week his visits had become scarce.

Even Lady seemed to miss Margaery’s presence, taking to moping around wherever Sansa was, licking idly at Sansa’s hands or face, whining.

She had a flood of voice messages from her family. Her father had even come over once, to see how she was coping with the death of her former love, and it made Sansa sick to pretend to care.

But when she cried in his arms, that was real.

At the start of the fourth week of silence, Margaery messages that they can talk for five minutes.

Sansa’s heart was in her mouth, and as soon as Margaery answered Sansa blurted, “I’ve missed you.”

Margaery laughed quietly, and in Sansa’s mind her cheeks were glowing red.

“I’ve missed you too, my sweet Sansa. Loras has told me you look like you’re doing well, but I know you better.”

There were tears in Sansa’s eyes, and she didn’t even know why.

“Will I get to see you?” She breathed through the phone.

“Of course, my love,” Margaery hushed, “Of course. But first we must wait. Then we’ll leave together, somewhere even more beautiful than High Garden, and we can stay there together.”

Margaery sounded wistful, and deep in Sansa’s stomach she felt a weight drop, like such dreams would never come true, and that two of them knew.

“You can stay and write songs all day. If that’s what you want, that’s all you’ll ever do. And Lady will be there. The three of us, Sansa. Forever.”

Forever sounded like a distant place, one Sansa could never reach.

But instead, she choked out, “I’d like that, Margaery. The three of us.”

“But first we must wait.”

“I will.”

“My sweet Sansa,” Margaery sighed, “I know you will.”

Margaery disconnected the call.

*

Three months after the wedding, Sansa attended her father’s birthday celebration alone.

Margaery was still a thorn amongst lions, and not even a wolf could tear their throats out.

Loras would carry messages between them, but they still could not meet. It was too much of a risk, the widow and the dumped, seen to be laughing together while a boy lay dead.

The notes were handwritten, small messages of random thoughts that never carried real conversation. Sansa kept Margaery’s messages in the bottom drawer of her jewelry box, and on the days that seemed to never end, she’d fall asleep with them clutched in her palm.

_I still wear the tooth. It makes me feel stronger. Like you, my Sansa._

When Sansa arrived at the venue, her mother introduced her to a younger boy named Robert.

“My friends call me Robin,” he said as greeting, and when Sansa shook his hand it came back covered in sweat.

“You have a firm handshake,” he commented.

_You have a handshake like a man’s._

_No. I simply just have a handshake._

Sansa didn’t even hide rubbing her hands dry on her dress.

When Robin asked if she would like to dance, her mother answered for her.

“I’m sure she’d love to.”

_I found the perfume you wear today. I sprayed it on my clothes, but it’s not quite the same._

Robin’s grip was weak on her shoulder, and continuously had to stop to have a coughing fit. Sansa was beyond caring. She stood by bored as he coughed into a handkerchief.

He couldn’t dance very well either, kept treading on her toes and bumping their hips together, and whenever they did his face would flush bright red.

“You should come visit me in the Vale sometime, Sansa. It snows there too. Your father said you like the snow.”

Robin’s brown hair was limp and plastered to his head with sweat. He was so skinny he looked much younger than what he was, and Sansa felt like she was dancing with a twelve-year-old boy. He could hardly look her in the eye without blushing.

They spent the night saying words but not talking, Sansa replying coldly and disinterested, Robin constantly tumbling over his words and coughing them out all over her. Her bare arms felt wet by the end of the night.

_I like to sit outside when it snows in High Garden. I see you in the snow flakes..._

After the night was over, and Robin was whisked away by his father, Sansa was sitting outside in the cold, trying to shake off the feeling of sweat and boys.

“You don’t look happy, Sansa.”

Her father sat down beside her, shrugging off his large overcoat and draping it over her shoulders. She hugged it closer, covering her mouth and nose with the collar. She didn’t reply.

“Did Robin do something?” He asked.

Sansa shook her head, because he had not.

“What’s the matter, love?”

Sansa didn’t reply.

“Is it Joffrey?”

Sansa still didn’t reply.

“Your mother and I are worried. We hardly see you anymore. And when we do, you seem like worlds away.”

He paused, putting a heavy hand on her knee, comforting. It seeped warm into Sansa’s leg, and she felt safe with her father.

At least, for a little bit.

“Robin could be good for you. He’s not the most muscular of men, not a movie star or anything,” he tried to joke, “But he’s kind. And I think you need someone Sansa. You look lonely.”

And Sansa could not disagree. She was lonely. She could not talk to Margaery, Loras appeared to have no real interest in talking to her, and going to see the Hound was hard and exhausting.

It wasn’t like she could even tell her father about these people anyway, especially the Hound. None of her family knew about Petyr and his stay in Sansa’s bed, so as far as they were concerned, Sansa was completely on her own for nearly twelve months.

She didn’t think Lady counted.

“Robin is the son of a very important client of mine. And a very close friend. I’m sure you’ve met him, Jon Connington. The Conningtons are comfortable, but they don’t boast it. They’re good people.”

Before Robin left the venue, he kissed Sansa on the cheek.

“We need the Conningtons.”

If someone were to ask, Sansa couldn’t tell them what her father even did for a living. All she knew was that it involved a lot of important people.

“Give him a chance.”

_…I see you in the snow flakes, and when I taste them on my tongue, I pretend that I’m tasting you._

*

There was a cabin in the woods, far away in a distant land. The cabin was solid, but comfortable, a small fire forever blazing in the darkened room. Sansa would not have been able to find it by herself, so small and tucked away as it was. It went beyond High Garden, but seated in the pit of trees and over grown shrubs, thorns and ivy twining through branches.

Sansa had sat in the back seat of Loras’ car and listened to Loras and Renly Baratheon pretend not to flirt.

“You always put on the shittiest music.”

“You love my music,” Loras smirked from the driver’s seat.

Renly poked at the radio like a petulant child, but a broad smirk was spread on his face.

“It’s not the only thing.”

Loras’ cheeks turned red, and he coughed, not replying.

There were only so many times Sansa could roll her eyes.

They had arrived at her flat at six in the morning, all smiles and giggling despite the early morning. Sansa had a butcher knife pressed into her hand, poised behind the slightly opened door.

“But that’s his uncle,” she said to Loras flatly.

“Don’t hold it against me,” Renly replied despite Sansa’s discomfort, “I didn’t get to choose.”

“Pack your bags, Sansa,” Loras interjected, “You’re going on holiday. Somewhere far away.”

Sansa’s spirit picked up, hoping that this would be when she finally saw Margaery, and just the thought of it erupted butterflies in her stomach.

She smiled, closed the door and started frantically throwing clothes haphazardly into a duffel bag.

“Oh,” she heard through the door, “By the way: bring the dog.”

When they finally arrived at the cabin, after nearly four hours of driving and awkward touching in the front seat, Loras told Sansa that they would only be ten minutes away.

“You’re not staying here?” She asked as Lady explored the area.

“Gods, no,” Loras laughed, “Do you think she’d let us crowd you two? Go inside Sansa. It’s been too long.”

Loras drove away on the dirt road, kicking gravel at her feet, but she could hardly feel it.

Sansa hardly registered that she was moving at all until her hand was on the wooden door knob, and her wrist was twisting it open, revealing before her the most beautiful sight she had ever seen.

Margaery was not in her usual extravagant gowns, instead opting for warmth and comfort in the cold. Her jeans hugged at her shapely legs, and a flannel with too many of the buttons undone pinched in at her waist.

For the first time, Sansa saw Margaery’s hair pulled back into a high ponytail, revealing her high cheek bones and large, doe eyes.

Even in down clothes, Margaery still looked like a princess.

 _Not a princess. A_ queen.

Margaery raised an eyebrow, trying to suppress a smirk but failing.

“Sansa,” she breathed.

And that’s all it took. It’s all Sansa needed to finally push her legs forward, to meet Margaery in the middle of the room, and confidently take the woman’s face in her hands and press her mouth to Margaery’s.

It felt like kissing a warm fire, unfurling in her stomach and spreading from her lips across her cheeks, and down her neck. Margaery instantly kissed back, moving her lips against Sansa’s, whispering words Sansa couldn’t quite hear. Margaery’s face felt warm under her cold hands.

Margaery’s hands were placed lightly on Sansa’s hips, not intruding, but still exciting. Sansa had never known such tenderness.

They stayed like that for a while, nipping at each other’s lips and kisses down necks, only sighing half words and breathing each other in.

They only stopped when Lady came bounding in, covered in snow and excitedly scratching at Margaery’s leg. Margaery stopped kissing Sansa, much to both of their disappointment, and stooped to pet Lady, rubbing the dog’s face and ears in her hands. A shy but satisfied smile was playing on her soft, warm lips.

“I’ve missed you, wolf girl.”

And Sansa was almost sure she wasn’t talking about Lady.

*

They spent most of their time in the cabin bed, hardly bothering to get dressed most days, content to lay in each other’s arms and talk about all and nothing. Lady would curl up at their feet, like it used to be, only this time romantic movies were broken up with long periods of doing nothing but kissing and hands trailing down sides. Loras and Renly didn’t bother them, because as Margaery explained, they were doing much the same themselves.

Margaery particularly liked to play with Sansa’s hair, occasionally sweeping it aside to trail kisses on her neck and shoulders, but mostly putting it in intricate plaits and buns and ask Sansa about her family.

“You would like Arya,” Sansa said, “She’s tomboyish and always dirty, and would never let you play with her hair, but she has a confident spirit about her that I think you would like.”

Margaery smiled, “I will only ever play with your hair, Sansa.”

When she spoke about Bran’s fall, Margaery listened quietly, not interrupting, resting her chin on Sansa’s shoulder and holding her around the waist.

“I have a brother named Willas,” Margaery said when Sansa was finished, “He couldn’t make it to the wedding. He didn’t really want to, and it would have been difficult for him. He lives too far away.”

Margeary kissed Sansa on the neck, lingering.

“Willas is paralyzed too. He’s much older, full of spirit, and doesn’t let it get to him. Don’t let it get to you.”

Sansa nodded, pressing herself further into Margaery.

“Can I ask you something?” Sansa asked, wanting to change the subject.

“Of course, my love.”

And the question that had been burning at the back of her throat since the very beginning, since they had met and Margaery had confided in her in the darkness of the garden. A million years ago.

“Why?”

And without needing clarification, Margaery knew the context of the question.

“Money,” she replied simply, “Morals. Revenge. A whole range of stupid things. But mostly because when I saw the broken girl smile at her lover’s betrayal, I knew I wanted to make her smile more.”

“I don’t feel like smiling,” Sansa replied truthfully.

“When it’s all over, and we get away for good, then you will smile. I know you will.”

Sansa allowed that fantasy to play in her head, and she liked it so much she nearly believed in it.

“Let’s go to bed now.”

Sansa could never refuse.

*

It took her a few days to mention Robin.

She didn’t want to, didn’t want to ruin the perfect get away the two of them had in the cabin, but her father kept messaging her asking to arrange dates.

Margaery went quiet.

“Tell your father. About us,” she said slowly.

“How can I? You’re the widow of my ex-boyfriend. My father is a noble man. Too noble. And clever, he won’t miss the connection. He’d throw me into the flames to bring justice to order.”

Sansa swallowed hard.

“Especially if it meant freeing me from prior commitments.”

Margaery chewed on her lip, and Sansa knew this meant she was thinking.

They didn’t talk for the rest of the day, but they didn’t avoid each other either. They sat in the big armchairs by the fire, Sansa reading the original Fairytales Grimm, Margaery scratching words into her journal Sansa recognized from her notes.

What Sansa was ignoring, however, was the ever beeping of her phone, her father’s demands of when she was free.

_8:30 pm: Take him ice skating. You love ice skating, Sansa.  
_

_9:00 pm: They're putting on a production of Hamlet in Deepwood Motte._

_10:46 pm: I’m sure Theon will let you use his fishing boat for a few hours. That would be nice._

_11:03 pm: Please, Sansa. Anything._

When Sansa switched off her phone, and crawled into bed with Margaery at midnight, Margaery curled up to her side, whispering into Sansa’s ear, “I have an idea.”

It sent fireworks and bombs exploding in the pit of her stomach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo hoo, quick upload! It either comes in floods or it droughts. I said domestic sansa/margaery but i havent quite gotten there. sorry! but um, this is my first time ever writing physical intimacy, and was hoping for some feedback??? I've never been kissed so sucks to be me.


	6. Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Times up for Sansa, and now it is time for her to fly away.

On their first date they went horseback riding in the Vale.

Robin complained the entire time and Sansa tried very hard not to make her mare kick him in the head.

_It would be much quicker than whatever Margaery is planning_.

Their instructor, Mya, didn’t appreciate his complaining either.

“If you don’t like it, sir, then why are you here?”

“She made me,” Robin pouted, referring to Sansa.

Apparently when her father said to take Robin out _anywhere_ , he meant anywhere but horseback riding.

How Sansa was supposed to know that is beyond her, and instead tried her hardest to enjoy the ride for herself.

That morning Margaery had messaged her that Tyrion Lannister was going to be represented in court by the country’s best attorney, Oberyn Martell.

In the four months since the wedding, no one had come to question Sansa about the events of that night. According to Margaery, she had kept Sansa’s name off the official wedding’s guest list. But it was only a matter of time until Tyrion told Martell about her.

_9:13 am: Do you still have the wedding invitation?_

**9:13am : Yes. It’s on the fridge.**

_9:14 am: On display like that?_

**9:36 am: It has your name on it. You’re /real/ name.**

_9:40 am: Oh, my sweet Sansa._

**9:40 am: Shut up.**

Twenty minutes later, Sansa received a call asking if she would be available for questioning at midday.

The plan was to ride the horses to the bottom of the Vale, where Sansa and Robin would have a picnic under the trees and gaze into the sky. It had taken Maragery’s assistance to prepare the picnic basket, Sansa not all too keen to dive back into the world of men.

It would be evening fall by the time they reached the bottom, and Sansa had flashes of memories of pudding and snow.

Before the police officers entered her house, Sansa had to remove the erectile dysfunction magnet from the invitation that purposely covered his name. Sansa continued to receive strange letters in the mail after Baelish flew away.

The taller officer, who introduced himself only as Bronn, did most of the talking, and did so bluntly but not unkind. His partner, Officer Trant, didn’t say a word.

“Where were you when the incident happened?”

“Why weren’t you on the guest list?”

“Why did you even go to the wedding?”

Sansa answered as best she could without getting someone in trouble, but she feared her fumbling words had given her away.

“How long did you know Tyrion Lannister prior to the wedding?”

Sansa had made them tea, but they didn’t touch it.

“Where did you go after the event happened?”

Sansa was scared.

**1:35 pm: I told them that Loras took me home. I’m sorry if I wasn’t meant to, I didn’t know what else to say.**

_1:37 pm: That’s fine Sansa. You did fine._

**1:38 pm: Now what?**

_1:39 pm: Be patient, sweet Sansa. I’ll be over to help soon._

Before the officers left, they told Sansa that they may call on her to testify in court.

“Of course,” was all she replied before shutting them out.

At the bottom of the Vale, Robin informs Sansa that he’s lactose intolerant.

It took all of Sansa’s will not to choke him with the feta cheese tucked away in the picnic basket.

Margaery’s voice played in her ears like a sweet song.

_Do as he wishes, sweet Sansa,_ it sang, _only for a little while longer. Then we will be free._

Sansa forced a smile, and managed to produce enough food from the basket that didn’t contain any milk.

Robin had brought with him an entire linen cupboard of blankets, wrapping them around himself one after the other without even offering one to Sansa.

The hot chocolate in the thermos burned her tongue.

“These sandwiches taste funny,” Robin commented. Sansa just nodded absently.

Sansa’s phone started buzzing, and even Robin could hear it.

“Who is it?”

Sansa pulled the phone out of her pocket, “It’s my brother. Robb.”

“Hang up,” he said immediately.

Sansa was perturbed by his sudden command, but hanged up anyway. Anything to appease her sweet Robin.

Her sweet Robin, who wouldn’t stop jerking for the remainder of the evening. His muscles twitched and spasmed, some times hitting against Sansa.

They spent the night talking idly, Sansa hardly yielding any real conversation, and Robb called a further three times.

Sansa took Robin home in her car, and at his front door, Robin leaned in to kiss Sansa. She didn’t move, and Robin’s lips felt too hot against her skin.

“It was a terrible date,” he said as he unlocked the front door, “I feel sick and hot but I don’t mind. I enjoyed spending time with you, Sansa.”

She just smiled weakly, turning back to her car before he got into the house.

“We’ll do this again, right? Yeah, Sansa?”

“Yeah,” she called over her shoulder.

Once she slumped in the front seat, she took a pack of gum out of the glove box, and put three in her mouth.

As she started the car she already had a message from Robin, telling her good night. She didn’t reply.

When she arrived at her flat, she found the front door already unlocked. Putting her keys between her fingers, Sansa gently swung open the door, ready to attack anyone that might be lurking in the darkness.

“Hey, it’s me,” the darkness greeted, but Sansa could hardly place the voice. She lunged anyway, swinging her metal fist, before a large hand grabbed her wrist and said, “Hey, hey, Sansa, cut it out! It’s Robb!”

It had been so long since she had spoken to her brother that she could hardly recognize his voice.

“Oh my god,” she said, and dropped her keys, “I’m so sorry, Robb.”

“It’s fine,” he replied, letting her go, “I shouldn’t have broken into your flat. But you wouldn’t answer my calls.”

“Robin wouldn’t let me.”

Sansa flicked on the lights, and saw her brother’s face for the first time in months.

Sansa had only spoken to Robb for five minutes at their father’s birthday, enough time to be introduced to Robb’s fiancé Jeyne Westerling. The rest of her evening was spent being trampled on by Robin.

“What do you mean he wouldn’t let you?” Robb demanded.

Sansa shrugged, “Said it was time for the two of us. Couldn’t be disrupted.”

Robb was weary, “That’s not healthy, Sansa.”

Sansa nearly laughed at the absurdity of it. Her brother, a man, telling her what was and wasn’t healthy in a relationship. Sansa knew all too well. Better than him.

She knew her brother was a good man. Honest and noble, just like their father. But their father had also forced Sansa into this. She didn’t place much expectation on Robb.

She put the kettle on, taking two cups out of the cupboard, put tea bags in them. Methodical.

“It was our first date, Robb,” Sansa reasoned, “I can understand if he wants it to just be us.”

The two of them were silent as Sansa poured the water, stirring it around with a spoon, making Robb’s cup darker than Sansa’s. He liked it strong.

She poured the milk, and brought it carefully over to Robb sitting at the table, and breaking the silence asked, “Why are you here, Robb?”

“I’m worried about you,” he replied simply.

Sansa raised an eyebrow, taking a small sip from her tea.

“And,” Robb continued, “The subject of Baelish came up at work today. A mate of mine mentioned that he had seen you and Baelish in his folk’s restaurant together a month before he went missing. I wanted to know why he would have seen such a thing.”

Sansa shrugged, “There are plenty of red headed girls around, Robb. He probably mistook them for me. Who was it?”

“Wendel Manderly,” Robb replied hard.

Sansa closed her eyes. Wendel was Robb’s friend from the high school soccer team, and Sansa didn’t know that his father, Wyman Manderly, owned the Kneeling Man. She tried to steady her breathing.

“Sansa?” Robb probed.

“He knew mum when they were kids,” Sansa said, her eyes still closed.

“Yeah, she told me. Said that he wasn’t allowed to see her when they eleven though. Wouldn’t say why. Do you know?”

Sansa just shook her head.

“Sansa,” Robb pushed, “What the hell?”

“What do you mean, ‘what the hell’, Robb?!” Sansa exploded, “You don’t talk to me for months, none of you do, but now you expect me to just divulge you in every detail of my life? You can piss off, Robb, you and the rest of this fucking family!”

Sansa threw her cup at the wall, shattered glass and raindrops of tea painting the kitchen and scratching Sansa on her arm. Robb jumped out of his seat, terrified at his sister’s sudden outburst.

Sansa stalked across the kitchen floor and shut herself in her room. She lay on her bed, angry, but Robb didn’t leave, instead deciding to clean her kitchen floor of tea and debris and slept on the couch.

Sansa didn’t get up until midday, and Robb spent his morning cleaning Sansa’s flat and making the best lunch he could from what little food he found in the fridge.

When Sansa finally shuffled out of her room, still in the clothes she wore the previous day, the first thing Robb said to her was “Where’s all your food?”

“I’ve been away,” Sansa grumbled, kneading her forehead with the palm of her hand, trying to work out a knot of a migraine bundled above her eye.

“Where have you been?” he asked gently.

“I don’t know,” Sansa answered truthfully, “It was a friend’s cabin. I don’t actually know where it was.”

Robb just hummed, obviously not believing her.

Lunch consisted of cereal and tea, followed by some nuts and scrapings of fruit that weren’t bruised.

They ate silently, Sansa begrudgingly wondering when he was going to leave. There were messages buzzing on her phone, but she dared not read them with Robb there. They were probably from Margaery.

“So it’s not just me you’ve been ignoring,” he commented, but Sansa didn’t reply.

“I’m sorry, Sansa,” he sighed, reaching out to put a hand on hers. She let him. “I’m sorry I haven’t spoken to you in a while. I’m sorry none of us have. I can understand that Joffrey’s death might be upsetting for you, and we should have been there for you. More than what we were.”

“I don’t give a shit about Joffrey,” Sansa replied idly.

Robb’s hand retracted slightly. “Oh.”

Tears were welling in Sansa’s eyes, wanting nothing more than to tell her big brother all the things that have been going on, about the Hound and Margaery and Baelish, and now Robin, wanting him to hold her and make all the problems go away, just like when they were kids. But she couldn’t do it this time, wouldn’t put Margaery at risk like that, so instead she looked out the window, staring vacantly at the tops of grey buildings that surround her sky.

Her phone kept insistently buzzing.

“Answer it,” Robb said, “I’m not Robin.”

Sansa reached for the phone, unlocking it and was only able to read one message before there was a knock on the door.

Sansa’s cheeks paled, and she nearly threw up her lunch. Her entire body broke out into a cold sweat, and she could hardly keep hold of her phone in her shaking hands.

“Sansa?” Robb said, somewhere distant.

When Sansa didn’t move, and the knocking grew harder, Robb tried to shake her on the shoulder. When she still didn’t move, Robb got up t answer the door.

Sansa didn’t need to see their faces, didn’t need to hear their voices to know that the police were back to question her, this time unrelated to Joffrey.

“Is Sansa Stark home?” Bronn asked.

“She’s at the table,” Robb answered unsure, “But she’s not feeling very well.”

From what felt like a vast distance, Sansa heard Bronn huff sarcastically. “I’m sure she isn’t.”

Bronn moved into the flat without invitation, his partner floating behind him, and seated himself in Robb’s chair, opposite to Sansa.

“We’ve come to talk about a mutual friend of ours, Sansa.”

She was still looking at her shaking hands.

“An anonymous tip told us that they saw you and Baelish dining together prior to his disappearance.”

He paused, waiting for Sansa to respond. She did not.

“And then we decided to go over his personal effects. Double check to see if there was any evidence of a female friend of his. We didn’t. But we did find this.”

Bronn beckoned Trant forward, and the officer placed a laptop on the kitchen table. He opened it, facing it to Sansa, and hit the space bar.

Sansa still didn’t look up, because she already knew what she was seeing.

Sansa heard her own screams, and the laughter of vile men, and the finality of a gun shot. And then another. And then another.

_“Hey, little bird.”_

Tears fell down her cheeks, and Robb started shouting at them to turn it off. She almost forgot he was there, and that surely she was bare and open in the video.

_How distressing for him._

Buzzes on her phone told her that Operation: Fly Away was a go.

Bronn was talking to her, questioning her, demanding to know who the man in the video was. Did she know him? Does she know where he is? Can she take them to him?

Did she know why Baelish had this video? Why wasn’t it reported?

Somewhere in the recesses of her mind, Sansa had the answers. But she didn’t want to think about it, didn’t want to answer, didn’t want to get the Hound in trouble. She just wanted Margaery.

_Time to fly away, Sansa. Forget sweet Robin. We have to go!_

Sansa still didn’t reply, and Bronn asked who was messaging her on her phone.

Robb was yelling at them to get the hell out.

“I am calling her lawyer and I will tell them that you entered her home uninvited. You just barged in here!”

Bronn was getting frustrated with her, slamming his fist on the table.

“Answer me, damnnit, or I will arrest you for withholding information and interfering with an ongoing investigation!”

_I’m coming to get you. Don’t pack. Please answer me, Sansa._

Robb was still shouting for them to get out, but Bronn was ignoring him. He leapt from his seat, grabbing Sansa’s wrist roughly and started shaking it.

“Talk, damnit! Where is Baelish! What have you done to him?”

Sansa was burned alive again, the hot contact on her arm igniting her. Just as she had done before, she slipped her delicate arm between Bronn’s index finger and thumb, pulling away easily and bringing her elbow up to smash his nose.

Bronn cursed viciously, covering his instantly bleeding nose with his hands. Robb had stopped shouting, his eyes wide with awe at Sansa’s quick action.

“I think you should leave,” Robb said evenly, but Sansa could hear the storm brewing in his throat.

The officers left silently, taking the laptop with them. Bronn paused at the door, and said nasally, “This isn’t over, Stark.”

Robb slammed the door shut.

“Sansa…” he whispered, horrified, “What have you done?”

_I was outside your flat but there was a police car. Are you okay??? Sansa, please. I’m a block away. Come at once!_

Sansa could tell that Margaery was scared. And Margaery was the brave one.

Sansa continued to ignore her brother, instead pulling on some shoes and grabbing her coat.

“Where are you going?!” Robb demanded.

Sansa started for the door, but Robb blocked her way. There was no way Sansa could get around his broad shoulders, instead having to face his questions in order to get away.

“Sansa!” he shouted in her face.

“Let me through,” she commanded, not looking him in the eye.

“Not until you tell me what’s going on. What happened to Baelish, Sansa? What was that video?”

Sansa was tired of questions.

“Baelish flew away and now I am too. Move out of the way.”

Robb didn’t move.

“ _Move,_ Robb!”

“No!”

Sansa had no time for this, and even though she loved her brother dearly, he was going to get her arrested.

“I’m sorry,” she said, and then quick as a flash of lightning, hit Robb in his midsection below the ribs, as if she were pushing his stomach up to his chest with the butt of her hand.

No matter what size they were, this would always knock the wind out of any man.

Robb gasped, suddenly wheezing and hunching over, and all it took Sansa was a gentle shove to push him onto his side.

_Just as I did to Petyr._

Stepping over her gasping brother, Sansa had to refrain from running out of the building. She decided to take the stairs instead of the elevator, needing to work out all the nervous energy that had built up inside her.

Her phone buzzed in her hand again and she wanted to pit it against the concrete walls.

Robb was gasping her name from a few floors up.

In the foyer she finally checked her phone. She was confused when she read her father’s name.

_Call me. It’s about Robin._

She didn’t care.

It took her too long to find Margaery’s car, but when she did slip into the passenger seat, Margaery didn’t even greet here before starting the car and speeding off.

“What happened?” Margaery sounded terrified.

“They know about Baelish. And what the Hound did. They found the video at Baelish’s. And Robb was at my place and he just wouldn’t leave. And now my dad just won’t stop calling me!”

A message on her screen said that it was serious, Sansa, would you just answer the phone?

“It’s okay,” Margaery hushed, instantly dropping her terrified expression, “My sweet Sansa, it’s all okay. It’s over. We’re leaving.”

Margaery reached over to hold Sansa’s hand, and Sansa would have closed her eyes and melted into Margaery’s touch, had her phone not started ringing.

Inappropriately, her ringtone was _Three Little Birds_ by Bob Marley.

_Every little thing is gonna be alright_.

“It’s about Robin,” Sansa explained.

“Better answer it,” Margaery replied grimly, “And I’m so sorry, Sansa.”

Sansa’s eyebrows furrowed, but answered the call anyway. She didn’t let go of Margaery’s hand.

“Dad?”

“Sansa! I’m so glad you finally answered. Look, sweetie, I have some bad news…”

Sansa probably already knew.

“It’s Robin, sweetheart.”

He just wouldn’t stop jerking.

“He’s dead.”

Sansa hardly had time to process her father’s words when she heard a police siren blaring behind them.

Margaery swore under her breath, and in the rearview mirror Sansa could see the broken face of Officer Bronn.

Sansa swore too.

Over the phone her father asked if she was okay.

“We can’t pull over,” Sansa said, and Margaery nodded.

“Hold on tight, my love.”

The roads and streets of Winterfell were always packed and compressed with busy bodies and heavy cars. Sansa always preferred walking to places than attempting to get there by car, or worse, public transport. Driving amongst the packed and beeping cars made Sansa nervous.

Margaery, on the other hand, appeared to be at ease with driving in Winterfell, so much so that if the situation arose, which it has now, that she could confidently boycott the road and take to driving on the footpath, paving a clear path of people before her.

Sansa shrieked as Margaery suddenly swerved onto the footpaths, mimicking the panicking pedestrians that jumped out of the way. The police car behind them did not hesitate, Meryn Trant easily following suit and revving forward to hit Margaery’s bumper. Sansa jolted against her seat belt, giving her a burn on her neck, and before she knew what was happening her ears were ringing and glass was dancing over her.

Margaery did not even utter a scream as the gun continued to fire at them, concentrating instead on pressing her foot down on the accelerator and moving forward regardless of the innocent people in their way.

Many of the cars on the roads started beeping them, shouting abuse out of their windows, and a few more gunshots followed behind them. Sansa’s heart was racing, and she suddenly wished she had a gun to fire back at them.

As if she were reading her thoughts, Margaery leaned over and opened the glove box, revealing an old silver .44 single action revolver, the handgrip carved with roses and twining thorns. Two letters were engraved on the barrel: O.T.

_Olenna Tyrell._

Sansa hesitated over the gun, suddenly indecisive about whether she was willing to do it.

More shots fired through their window, and Margaery had taken to driving with her head lowered near her knees, and Sansa knew that if she didn’t shoot then she might as well kill the both of them.

The Hound had tried to teach her how to use a gun, but after ten minutes of Sansa freaking out over the heavy metal in her hand, he gave up quickly. That didn’t stop him from giving her theoretical workings of a variety of guns, however.

Margaery was back into swerving on the road, expertly weaving in and out between angry drivers, but not enough to shake off the police car. Cars all around them were veering off and crashing into one another, into buildings, and Sansa thinks that from the corner of her eye she saw a car hit a child.

Sansa held the gun in her right hand, pulling back the hammer with her left and without looking, thrust the gun behind her and shot out of the open back pane window.

She heard the deafening crack of the bullet exiting the barrel in her ears, the sound of metal screaming, and a shock of pain in her extended right arm from recoil, but when Sansa looked behind her the police car was still well and chasing.

“We only have four rounds left!” Margaery screamed at her, “Aim properly!”

Sansa took a big breath, and trusting Margaery not to crash the car, undid her seatbelt and swiveled around in her seat, facing the advancing police car and kneeling on her chair.

Trying to keep as much of her head covered by the head rest as possible, Sansa extended her arms out around the head rest, aiming at the police car. Again, she pulled back the hammer, and holding the gun with both hands shot at the car.

Her arms recoiled dramatically, hitting against roof of the car, but again shot nothing.

“Sansa!” Margaery yelled, “Come on!”

Sansa was prepared this time, holding the gun firmly and steadily, ready for the strong recoil as she pulled the trigger. The police car swerved this time, Trant’s face pulled into a state of shock as the front right tire blew out.

Margaery let out a cry of triumph.

Quickly, Sansa pulled the hammer, aimed, and hit the left front tire, as if she had been doing this all her life.

The police car slowed drastically, rolling all over the road uncontrollably, quickly becoming a distant figure out the back window. 

Sansa had one shot left, and without even thinking about it, cocked the hammer and fired through their windshield.

Sansa saw Bronn’s face explode into red, felt Trant’s screams in her spine and hardly registered that she had dropped the cold gun in the backseat.

Margaery, now back on the footpath and swerving down an alleyway, crossed over to a parallel road and moving ahead.

Sansa could not longer see the police car, but that didn’t mean there weren’t more coming. Distant sirens kept her heart beating fast. Visions of red would keep her awake for years.

She slumped back in her chair, her arms shaking and sore, and Margaery appeared to have calmed down a bit. She stroked the red-haired girl’s arm.

“You did great, my sweet Sansa,” she said soothingly.

They kept speeding along, but they came across no more police cars.

Despite everything, perhaps the worst was behind them.

*

They stopped at a petrol station and Sansa dyed her hair in the dirty bathroom.

Her once bright, vibrant orange was now a dull chocolate brown, nowhere near as magnificent as Margaery’s brunette curls. But now even Margaery’s curls held no life, as they dropped like rain on the cracked tiled floor.

They had discarded Margaery’s car before they reached Riverrun, and with heavy bags full of material items and stacks of cash, walked for an hour to the petrol station. 

“Your dye will be temporary,” Margaery promised, apparently at ease with hacking off her own long hair.

Sansa was dismayed at first, but it turns out that Margaery was quite the hairdresser. Margaery cut her own hair evenly, forming it into a curly bob that framed her sharp face well. Sansa helped with evening out the back, and Margaery rubbed the dye into Sansa’s hair thoroughly.

“Strychnine,” Margaery explained as she washed the dye out of Sansa’s hair, “It’s mostly used as a pesticide. Just bought it from a local hardware store.”

Sansa had to stand awkwardly to get her hair under the bathroom tap, and women that came and went didn’t pay them any mind. She enjoyed Margaery’s fingers scratching against her scalp, loved having her hair played with, no matter what the circumstances.

“I helped you pack the picnic basket.”

Sansa nearly choked on the water running over her face. “I could have eaten it!”

Margaery playfully hit the top of Sansa’s head. “I would never! I put it in the mini ham sandwiches. I know you hate those.”

“Would have been nice to know,” Sansa grumbled.

“But I knew it would make you nervous. I didn’t want to do that to you.”

When Sansa didn’t reply, Margaery grew worried. “Are you angry with me?”

“No,” Sansa sighed, “But I’m just thinking… it was pointless, Margaery. What was the point?”

Margaery sighed too. “I know. This wasn’t the original plan, but then the police were questioning you and I knew I had to get you out. It wasn’t the most perfect plan, but I’ve got nearly five grand worth of his stuff in one of those bags, as well as my inheritance from my dearly departed husband. Everything has fallen into place just in time, my love. We can move away and never see this place again. We’re free. We’ll be just fine.”

Those last few statements sounded like Margaery reassuring herself.

“You’re done,” she said and turned off the tap.

As Sansa dried her hair under the hand dryer, she wondered if maybe Margaery liked the power killing brought her, just a little.

They paid the cashier a hundred bucks to turn off his security cameras for ten minutes, and then a further a hundred dollars to a group of youths to break into a waiting car at the pumps.

Their fingers didn’t touch a thing.

They drove for hours, Margaery chatting away about how Robb being over at her flat brought a convenient alibi for Sansa as Margaery broke into Robin’s house while the boy lay convulsing and asphyxiating on the floor.

She told Sansa how the beads in her hair caused Joffrey to choke.

She talked about the large sum of money that she had been slowly withdrawing for this very moment.

Most of all she spoke about the better life they were driving to.

And although her heart was heavy and tears came and went, Sansa believed in her. She believed in Margaery and she believed that they could get away. And for a while, sitting beside the woman she loved and holding her hand warmly, Sansa smiled.

Behind her were police and jail and family turmoil.

Ahead of her, although unclear, looked to be brighter than she could hope.

Sansa was in a rut of a mess, caught between moral obligation and the sweet success of escape. She knew she would have to confront this, but for now she allowed the glowing sun to warm her skin.

Maybe, once she had healed, Sansa could become a purity of light once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, like, I'm super sad because this is like the final chapter. I am planning like an epilogue thing but goddamn. God diggity damn. Thank you all for your kinds words, by the way, you guys are super sweet!


	7. Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue; Sansa and Margaery after the Great Escape.

The locals call her Alayne, and the little girls still like to braid her hair.

It’s peaceful and secluded in Horn Hill, a lot warmer than what Sansa was used to, but Margaery told her she liked to see the girl in singlets and skirts. Her pale skin burned at first, but now Sansa was collecting a large constellation of freckles and a vague tan. Margaery liked to kiss the small freckles on her shoulder blades, and Sansa liked to be kissed.

The locals call Margaery the Little Rose, or Rose for short. Sansa isn’t sure why.

Their small cottage house overlooked a vast green garden, full of blooming flowers and overhanging trees, and more often than not when Sansa couldn’t sleep, she would slip into the garden and nestle amongst the flowers. When she awoke she would smell like fresh bloom and dew. She would feel clean.

Sansa couldn’t sleep most nights.

Sometimes Lady would join her, nuzzling into Sansa’s side and curling into a ball. Margaery had her brought over from High Garden, where she was staying while Sansa went on her date with Sweet Robin.

Thinking about it still made Sansa feel sick, but her hands no longer shook, and sometimes she can pretend that she’s in control.

Margaery, in all her grace, would wake early on the nights Sansa spent outside, and in the fresh morning sunlight would sit in the flowers with Sansa’s head on her lap, and they wouldn’t talk until one of them asked what the other wanted for breakfast. The sun would rise over them, and Margaery’s hands would be warm on Sansa’s head. At times like this, Sansa could pretend to be at peace.

Margaery took great pride in her gardening, and grew her own fruit and vegetables. Sansa would sing from their balcony as Margaery picked strawberries in the warm sun, Sansa starting and stopping every so often to change a note on her music sheet, or to cross out line of lyrics. She would idly strum the guitar as Margaery explained to her from the garden what each of the flowers were named, and what they would represent if they were sent in a bouquet.

“Ambrosia is for mutual love. I’ve often thought of keeping some in our room.”

On Friday nights Sansa would play at the small local bar, and when a couple wanted her for their wedding they addressed her as Miss Stone.

A wide, vacant park became Lady’s second home, loving to play with the small wildlife that would be unperturbed by Lady’s size. Sansa would watch as the dog played, thinking of nothing at all.

Margaery insisted that Sansa got a job, or a hobby that got her out of the house, anything would stop the poor girl from thinking. On Tuesdays, Sansa taught singing lessons to a children’s choir at the local Sept. On Thursdays she taught a group of elderly women at the same Sept, and they always told her how beautiful she was.

“Like a ball of light,” they would say, and Sansa would go home and cry.

They became surprisingly quiet on the matter once Sansa informed them that her girlfriend would be providing the flowers for decoration for the Easter celebration this year.

On the morning of the wedding Sansa was to sing at, Margaery pinned a fresh white azalea to her dress.

“Please,” Margaery whispered, “Take care of yourself. For me.”

The flower smelt sweet.

_Fragile passion._

When Sansa sang, they applauded Alayne, but she smiled all the same. Watching the couple waltz and giggling into each other’s necks, Sansa felt a longing.

When she got home, and Margaery was curled up on the couch in nothing but her underwear, Sansa took her hand and they danced to her humming throat.

As the night progressed, and images of white and happiness played in Sansa’s mind like music, the two women performed a different kind of dance, and Sansa hummed in her throat all the same.

“We could get married,” she said timidly in the darkness, her cheeks flaring red.

“We could,” Margaery replied, her head resting on Sansa’s marble stomach, tracing small kisses around her belly button.

“ _Will_ you marry me?” Sansa asked.

“I will,” Margaery allowed, “But ask me again tomorrow.”

In the morning all Sansa could remember were choking boys. Margaery left myrtle on her pillow, but Sansa didn’t touch it.

_Love. Marriage._

When Sansa tried to apologize, Margaery drank her tears, and they didn’t get dressed for the day, and they didn’t stop touching each other.

“We don’t need a wedding,” Margaery murmured into her hair, “We don’t need anything anymore. Just peace of mind, my sweet Sansa. Just sunshine.”

Healing is always slow. A broken bone will still ache once it is mended, just as Sansa will always ache on clouded days.

These days would become long, the nights longer, but Margaery was always there, and that was enough for Sansa.

Everything that had happened occurred so Margaery could always be there, and Sansa was not about to be ungrateful.

Police reports whispered throughout Horn Hill, but none of them touched Sansa, and Margaery was never so susceptible to begin with. Words and ideas slipped off them like drips of oils. When posters were put on power lines, no one questioned why they looked so much like Alayne Stone and the Little Rose. Not a word was sent to the police, and it only took Sansa a day to tear them down. This was the last they heard.

“Only half a million in reward?” Margaery said, “That’s pitiful. I thought I would be a solid million, at least. And how dare they try to price you begin with, my love. You’re priceless.”

Sansa just smiled, and joked about how they didn’t even catch her good side in her identification photograph.

Sunday meant that Sansa had to cook dinner, lest they fall victims to the effects of daily take out. Sansa liked to use the vegetables from the garden, and Margaery liked to distract her by kissing her neck when she cut up the vegetables.

It just meant that when Margaery did the dishes, the two of them would become soaked from sink water, and bubbles were splashed onto noses and hair and no dishes were done, really.

Their local newspaper told them Tyrion Lannister was convicted for Joffrey Baratheon’s murder, and a week later told them that Tyrion Lannister had escaped and subsequentially killed his own father.

Reports stated that Tyrion Lannister painted the wall of his father’s bedroom with his blood. Sansa didn’t know how the Tyrion she met could have done such a thing, but at the same time, Sansa had never been to a men’s prison. She could only imagine what happened.

The walls stated that _in the end, Tywin Lannister did not, in fact, shit gold._

Sansa still felt a small peace that their scapegoat had fled the pen.

A week after that, when Sansa crawled into bed with Margaery, she proudly stated that she had spent the day without thinking about a single thing. The bright smile that highlighted her face could have set buildings on fire.

Margaery kissed her deeply until that fire burned in her stomach, spreading throughout her as she gasped and wriggled, Margaery kissing her deeply and holding her legs down to the mattress, and when she came Sansa laughed for the first time in months.

Healing was slow, like a broken bone, but it had to stop raining eventually.

Margaery’s hair grew into long ringlets down her back, and she looked as young and beautiful as she did when Sansa first met her.

Slowly, Sansa stopped dying her hair, and when it faded into bright orange she felt her smile again.

Bright orange nasturtiums smiled with her, filling in vases and spare bowls placed all around the house. They had become Margaery’s favourites.

_Conquest._

Nights could still be long, but in the garden were flowers and Lady and in the mornings there were girlfriends and breakfasts.

When it marked one year, Sansa felt her heart beat in time with the turning Earth, felt connected with everything around her, and not even the insistent news reports marking their escape anniversary could dull her back into darkness.

It had all come to be as perfect as it could get; the three of them, far away, where Sansa could write songs and do nothing else, and Margaery would be there by her side, and Lady at their feet.

When it rained it poured, but the flood would always have to settle and drain away eventually.

Sansa could make the darkness drain away from her soul, eventually.

Nasturtiums meant victory in battle; Sansa could not think of anything more fitting.

Sansa survived the war of men.

And she could shine once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it's a little short! But um yeah this will be the last instalment for 'Hungry like the Wolf'; I'm really sad about it! But i'm also super proud of myself. It's not often I like a work of mine, and I enjoyed writing this so much. Special thanks to Rose, Cami, and WelshCakes68 for all your encouraging comments and support!! You guys are super sweet and yes, I will most likely be writing more Sansa/Margaery fics. I love them too much not to.
> 
> Thank you all again, and I hope you've enjoyed it!


End file.
